The Parallax Effect
by Bionically
Summary: All oneshots under 5k will be placed in this file. Featuring a collection of rare pairings probably prompted by the Fairest of the Rare Facebook group. Pairing and word count will be at the beginning of each chapter.
1. Urban Legend

Title: Urban Legend

Part I of the Depravity of Purebloods series.

Pairing: Cormax x Hermione

Word Count: 500

Rating: M (for discussion of mature subjects)

* * *

"Muggleborn witches have vagina dentata," his classmate said in seventh year with all the attitude of a self-proclaimed expert. "It's why no Pureblood worth his salt will go near one! Once you dip your wick in that, then it's-" Patrick made a cutting sound from the back of his throat, accompanied by a slashing motion across his throat that made the other three boys jump.

Once he recovered, Cormac affected nonchalance. "No way." All three of his childhood friends had been sorted into Slytherin, and clearly the things discussed in that house were vastly different from what happened in the Gryffindor dorms. "That's an urban legend. Otherwise how do you account for Maggie Henkle or Bobbi Pimsbury?"

The other two boys gazed expectantly from Cormac to Patrick, who looked triumphant. "Easy. Those teeth got knocked out a long time ago."

Cormac couldn't deny that the popularity of either girl had mostly to do with the way they distributed their goodwill at frequent and random ease. Before he knew it, he had blurted another name out. "Hermione Granger."

"That one could shred your bits! Not even Weasley wants that!"

That exchange ran through his head now, as Cormac remembered how his enthusiasm upon her invitation to the Christmas party given by Old Sluggy had been twofold-not only did he fancy her, but he also relished the opportunity to make his friends eat their words.

Unfortunately, as befitting all his encounters with her, the party ended in a monumental disaster, mainly because the sight of her always prompted him to put in extra effort. Usually not in a good way.

Now that he was a bit older, he wondered at his initiative back then in trailing his fingers up her arm all the way to her jawline (a move he heard was powerfully effective but had made Hermione irritated rather than lustful). Perhaps he hadn't needed to list every single McLaggen contribution to the world. It was also possible that corralling her into a dark corner might have made her apprehensive rather than interested.

All of that ran through his head as he saw her walking towards him, looking as delectable as sin in a form-fitting skirt topped with a blouse. The years after graduation had been more than kind to her. Now, as then, he considered that bravery had nothing on pure lust when it came to satisfying some age-old curiosity.

Of course, as soon as Hermione greeted him, he ruined it.

Again.

He surprised even himself by blurting, "Is it true Muggleborn witches have vagina dentata ?" Though, from his failure to impress her in past encounters, he really oughtn't have been taken aback by his own ineptitude.

She didn't even bat an eyelash. "Teeth inside the vagina? Another Pureblood urban legend?" Her eyebrow was an arched invitation to think wicked things. He could only nod dumbly and try not to slaver.

The last thing he expected was for her to lean forward and murmur, "Care to find out for yourself?"


	2. Girl of Sun and Summer

Title: Girl of Sun and Summer

Part I of the Charlie x Luna series

Pairing: Charlie Weasley x Luna Lovegood

Word Count: 800

Rating: T

Summary: Whenever Charlie was required to stay at the sanctuary over Christmas, one of his siblings would make a point of visiting him. Unfortunately, this year, it fell to Ginny, who had spent the last five years setting him up with her numerous friends in a variety of increasingly creative ways.

Charlie resolved not to bury her in snow. Even if she deserved it.

Notes: Not beta'd or alpha'd.

* * *

Ginny's visit coincided with tragedy at the reserve: Hera, mother of dragons, had died of a bad cold.

Charlie hated discussing this topic with laypeople, because the inevitable question was "but don't they breathe fire? Shouldn't it, you know, keep them warm?" He probably heard this joke at least twenty times in the first week of December alone.

He wasn't feeling very humorous about the plight of the dragons. Hera should have been tending to her newest brood, carrying her young in her mouth during winter when it was chilliest out. Instead she was gone. Charlie was not only sad but worried sick about her babies. He had never wished so hard for the season to be over.

In the wintertime, dragons entered brumation, requiring only minimal care. The dragonkeepers restocked the pastures less often and relied on the animals' natural instinct for cover to dig underground shelter for themselves.

The same could not be said of baby dragons, whose growth slowed drastically if they brumated in their formative years. All five hatchlings were showing signs of ill health and seasonal lethargy due to being orphaned. Instead of being iridescent shades of blue or green, their scales were grey and dull, their fat pads were depleted, and they had mucus in their mouths. None of which endeared them to visitors, though infancy was the time people usually appreciated them the most.

"Ew," was Ginny's ever blunt first response. "Why is that one drooling foam?"

Next to Ginny, her friend was silent. A quiet girl—a rarity among Ginny's friends, each of whom was more raucous and forward than the next. She looked like a child and would probably not even come up to Charlie's clavicle. Ginny was really running out of prospective setups for him.

When Charlie didn't reply right away, the small girl reached into her bag and drew out a flute. Charlie watched with elevated brows, as he recalled the one setup who liked to recite erotic poetry. That one was—interesting.

"Luna?" Ginny frowned, falling silent as her friend lifted the flute to her lips.

Both Charlie and Ginny waited, but nothing could be heard.

Then the five baby dragons nesting under the lamp started to croon—a high-pitched shrieking sound that trailed off into random barks and screeches. They were singing, albeit horribly.

All five of them had lifted onto their hindquarters, waddling slowly towards Ginny's friend. Luna.

Luna lowered her flute, and she glanced up, directly looking at Charlie for the first time. He felt a jolt go through him. Her eyes were the color of healthy silver scales on a bright summer day.

"I wasn't sure if it would work." Her voice was soft, ethereal, and calming. "That's how dragons mourn their loved ones. They've just been orphaned, haven't they?"

He was too startled to reply.

The five baby dragons bobbed their heads up and down, searching for the music that had disappeared. Luna laughed, the sound delicate and light, tinkling like elven song. Just like her, Charlie supposed, dainty thing that she was.

But there was nothing dainty in the fearless way she crouched down and let the nearest dragon crawl up onto her hand.

"Her name is Luna?" Charlie murmured to Ginny. He still didn't like setups, but there was no point in being rude.

Ginny grimaced. "I know, I remember what you said. This isn't a setup. I just thought it'd be a nice trip for her. She's one of my best friends and she likes—misunderstood creatures."

Suddenly, Charlie remembered Luna. Luna Lovegood, the wraith-like girl who lived not far from the Burrow. She and Ginny used to play together, chasing fairies into the dusk. This was Luna? She had grown up—although, admittedly, not vertically. A small pale blonde girl made of snow and winter, exuding the warmth of sun and summer. When she shifted, Charlie saw red and green potted mushroom earrings dangling at her earlobes.

"Oh," was all Charlie could think to say. He crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. He scratched his beard and then his temple. "She—seems like a nice girl…"

Ginny stared at him. "Are you—are you interested in Luna ?"

He didn't quite know how to answer that. Only—any girl who knew to play inaudible music to newly orphaned dragons deserved a closer look.

Especially when she had silver eyes as bright as the sun and a laugh like the warm summer breeze.


	3. The Light in the Shadows

Title: The Light in the Shadows

Pairing: Ron Weasley/Millicent Bulstrode

Word Count: 512

Summary: Sometimes it's the quiet, unnoticed ones who grab your heart and don't let go. Written for the Fairest of the Rare Love Fest 2020. #TeamAphrodite

AN: This one is dedicated to my untiring beta, disenchantedglow, who is simply an awesome human being and is always there to cheer me on. Needless to say, the quality of this suffered because I wanted to surprise her.

* * *

They're always paired together in activities that require opposite genders and equivalent heights. She's the only girl in her year that tops six feet, and Ron is well over six feet even if he hunches, as though he's used to making himself a smaller target for his brothers.

Millicent, or Millie to her friends, knows what that's like. She has a slew of older sisters, all slim and petite and giggling and pretty. She's felt like a giant toad all her life. It doesn't matter that she likes unicorns as much as the next giggly girl, or dancing, or makeup and pretty things. It all seems ridiculous on her thick, bumbling build.

If there's a spell on how to make yourself daintier or prettier, Millie wants to know. She'd probably spend a fortune on it.

She doesn't even know what draws her attention to Ron Weasley in the first place. Maybe the fact that he seems so real and awkward. His face is always turning shades of red whenever he's made fun of by the girls in Gryffindor; either by Hermione for a mistake on a subject, Ginny for acting like he's someone special, or Parvati and Lavender for doing silly boy things. Still, he never turns a hair, even if his face might be the colour of an overripe tomato—he laughs at himself as though being the brunt of a joke is something fun.

It isn't fun. Millie knows this, and she admires how he can play it off as though it doesn't hurt.

It has to hurt, playing second fiddle to Harry the Chosen One Potter. Potter's the one with the money, the fame, the glory. He has girls who throw themselves on him and a way with words that Ron fumbles to imitate. He's got an ease with Quidditch that Millie admires even though she shouldn't, being in an opposing house with a history of hostile rivalry.

In everything, Ron is only second best, and that's something Millie can relate to.

When she drops her books in the hallway, there is nobody there who notices and bends down to pick them up with her. It's just Millie. Being her normal, clumsy, cow-like self.

Only a pair of scuffed shoes stop a little ways from her. One large freckled hand reaches over and gathers the books farthest from her, one by one. He stares at her for a moment before handing them over, stacked in a haphazard fashion. "There. They really should give us lighter texts, you know?" he says, and for just a minute, he flashes his unguarded smile before lurching upright and loping off down the hall.

Millie watches him go. He was like that sometimes. Terrible in the spotlight, but in one on one encounters, someone pleasant and likable. Someone with a strong undercurrent of gallantry, even for the underdog like Millie.

Sometimes it's the quiet, unnoticed ones who grab your heart and don't let go. The bright ones glow for the world to see, but it's the ones in the shadows who are the secret everyday heroes.


	4. Just We Two

Title: Just We Two

Word Count: 509

Pairing: Harry/Hermione

Summary: They've been through everything together, so much so that some things don't need to be said.

Notes: Written or NuclearNik in the Fairest of the Rare Love Fest 2020. #TeamAphrodite

Prompt: Harry/Hermione, order safehouse during war

Unbeta'd. Forgive all mistakes.

* * *

_We two make home of any place we go;_

_ We two find joy in any kind of weather;_

_Or if the earth is clothed in bloom or snow,_

_If summer days invite, or bleak winds blow,_

_What matters it, if we two are together?_

_We two, we two, we make our world, our weather._

_x_

_We two make banquets of the plainest fare;_

_In every cup we find the thrill of pleasure;_

_We hide with wreaths the furrowed brow of care,_

_And win to smiles the set lips of despair._

_For us life always moves with lilting measure;_

_We two, we two, we make our joy, our pleasure._

**—Ella Wheeler Wilcox, ****We Two**

* * *

It isn't supposed to happen like this, but sometimes things happen when you're on the run.

Emotions run high, panic sets in, and there's that thrilling sense of euphoria when you escape by the skin of your teeth. Running like there's tomorrow, because maybe there won't be one.

Afterwards, when you're laughing and holding onto each other and trying not to fall down where you stand, there are shared glances and shared memories.

_Can you believe that just happened?_

_No, no, I can't. We were almost caught!_

_Well, we weren't. But it was a very close call._

_It's lucky you were there._

_Same. Same._

There's a lot of handholding and quiet times, especially when the night is so dark that not even candles can banish the shadows. The sun seems especially weak, as though it's fading away next to the horrors pursuing you. The cold is such that not even fire or magic can charm it away; it's in your bones—it comes from that sinking feeling deep within you; it's there to make your teeth chatter, chatter, chatter.

The only spot of brightness is the person with you; if you let go of their hand, it almost seems like you'd be swallowed by the blackness completely.

_Where are you?_

_Here. Here._

_I can't—_

_I've got you. Hold my hand._

_Hermione…_

_Tighter. Tighter._

Even when you should feel safe and surrounded by others, you feel disconnected somehow. Like the levity and raucousness around you is happening to someone else, like they're someone else's Pensieve memories, and you're just walking around in them like an invisible and intangible ghost. There's only that one other person who's not one of them, and it's the only person who understands how you feel when you catch their eye in a crowd.

Sometimes you feel like you're talking to them across the distance, without any magical means.

_Just you. Just them._

_This food is so much better than what we had._

_Can you believe how much food there is here?_

_We could have used some of these spells._

_You should eat more._

_You too._

It almost seems inevitable what happens after that, as though everything that came before this was divination that you completely missed. Hints that you ignored. Foreshadowing that you dismissed.

In the dark of the night, when everyone's asleep, snuggled into the kind of rest that comes with living in a house with four walls and a host of other people to protect you, there's only them. Walking towards you. Slowly. Softly. A wand held up to illuminate the angles and slopes of their faces, as though you wouldn't have been able to paint them with your eyes closed.

_Couldn't sleep?_

_Yeah. You?_

_I'll have years of sleep to catch up on if I'm still alive after this._

_Oh, Harry…_

_Just hold my hand._

_Always._

Was it always inevitable, you sometimes wonder? If not for this war, for the things that went before, for all the things that were set in motion before you even existed—would this be where you ended up?

With you. With them. With the two of you against the world.

_Thank you._

_For...what?_

_For being there when no one was._

_I'll always be here for you._

_Same. Same._


	5. Scant Love Not

For Frumpologist.

Pairing: Bill/Hermione

Prompt: Pining

Word Count: 1741

AN: My lovely beta, disenchantedglow, was wonderful in getting back to me on a slew of shorts all during this fest, and this was one of them. I tinkered with it after she returned it to me, so please forgive all the errors.

* * *

_While flowering, ladies, scant love not_

_Lest all your fruit_

_Be but this black outcrop of stones_

—Sylvia Plath, _Two Sisters of Persephone_

* * *

As someone who prided herself as an intellectual, it was perhaps appropriate that Hermione would be knocked off her lofty perch by a massively inexplicable infatuation.

She had known Ron had brothers. There was a picture of them in the front parlor of the Burrow, and she had perused it once for similarities between the siblings. They were either tall and lanky like Arthur Weasley, or muscular and broad-shouldered like the Prewett's side of the family. Like both families, they all possessed the reddest hair she had ever seen.

Percy, Fred, and George she knew well from their years together at Hogwarts, and Charlie's dragon exploits were infamous. She had even been well aware of Bill's glamorous job as a curse-breaker.

All this she had known for years, and academically, she had categorised them: Bill, Percy, Ron, and Ginny took after the Weasley side in build; and Charlie, Fred, and George resembled the Prewetts.

She had always admired Ron's tall, broad-shouldered build; he had the type of naturally athletic figure that sent very unintellectual butterflies fluttering in her stomach. He looked like how a man should; strong and tall with the bluest eyes she had ever seen on a person. It was not—well, unnatural that she should develop a tiny crush on him. They had grown up together, after all, and what girl hadn't fantasised about marrying her childhood sweetheart?

It was just a pity that they weren't interested in the same things at all and that most of their conversations were so contentious as to annoy her for weeks afterwards. Everything she said seemed to set Ron off and vice versa. Sometimes she found him so irritating that she wanted to hex his face off.

Then Hermione met Bill Weasley.

Suddenly she understood her infatuation with Ron was just a small, miniscule shadow of the real thing.

It was terrible to compare brothers. Hermione knew this. Ron was the last of the brothers, and Bill had been the first, the scion, the bright star in the happy horizon of Molly and Arthur's blissful nuptials. Their upbringing would have been completely different, and yet—

—And yet, Hermione couldn't help seeing in Bill all the things she had admired in Ron, and more.

Everything about Bill Weasley was just more. He was the best looking of the brothers, with a clean-cut, chiseled jawline that Hermione couldn't help but admire secretly. Less superficial than his looks, however, was his intelligence, his love of books and knowledge, and his gentlemanly chivalry. Everything about him was just more, more, more, and Hermione couldn't help but compare every single boy she met after that to him.

It was unfair. She knew this. He was almost a decade older. She knew this too. He was completely out of her league since she was still in school and his little brother's friend. She knew all of this.

—And yet, it didn't dim her infatuation. Not one bit.

* * *

Every year that Bill remained single was another year in which Hermione hoped and prayed to grow up to be his equal. It was hard not letting her fantasies get out of control when he finally announced his intention of returning to Gringotts in London.

This was a sign—wasn't it?

The logical part of Hermione's brain had gone on permanent vacation, replaced by someone who had perpetual heart eyes whenever she thought of Bill Weasley. It got so bad that her relationship with Ron was more acrimonious than ever. Before, she had swallowed her ire in favour of diplomacy, but now that civility had been exchanged for a coldness that rivaled first year animosity. Harry, bless his heart, submerged in the troubles of the Tournament and on the outs with Ron, didn't even notice. Just wait, Ron. One day I'll be your sister-in-law, and then you'll be sorry you were blind to it all.

She no longer waited for Ron to step up and be a man anymore—no, she had someone else in mind for that. When Viktor Krum asked her to the Yule Ball, it hadn't been with Viktor in mind that she accepted. In the back of her mind, she had thought, older boys liked her. They found her attractive. Wouldn't he also?

She was turning ugly and dark on the inside, but the grip of a teenage infatuation was strong, overpowering. She was doodling his name on her notebooks rather than notes from class. Something inside her told her she was being unfair to Ron, that she should do something to heal the rift between him and Harry, but her mind was focused on other things. Other possibilities for the future. A meeting between two minds.

Surely he'd see her. He'd really and truly see her, not as a little girl, but as an equal.

* * *

It was a shock when Ginny first mentioned that Bill was dating Fleur Delacour.

He couldn't. Hermione listened with white-lipped shock.

"Two months now," Ginny said with a grimace. "Ugh, I can't stand her."

Ginny had a fairly good relationship with all her brothers, but because of the age gap, there was a special bond. She was filled with acrimony at the interloper in Fleur. She was haughty, she was snooty, she thought everything about England was terrible-then why didn't she simply go away and leave Bill alone?

In her thudding heart, Hermione couldn't agree more. "Maybe it's not serious."

"Merlin, I hope not." Ginny rolled her eyes at herself in the mirror and added another layer of lip gloss. "I couldn't stand her during the Tournament, what with Ron following her everywhere, but now this is even worse."

It was much worse. Hermione remembered Fleur's unnatural effect on Ron, and her heart sank. What if—what if the Weasleys were more susceptible to Veela than other wizards? Harry hadn't been as affected, after all, nor some of the other boys in class. Ron—perhaps Ron had been a special case?

Ron wasn't a special case, and Bill proved it by proposing to Fleur over the disapproval of his mother.

"They were going to live abroad, but then Bill decided to settle down in England." Despite her gloomy air, Ginny managed to pop an astounding three Cauldron cakes at a time into her mouth. "I hope they're not going to live at home. I can't stand to have all of my brothers mooning over her. What makes her so special anyway?"

"She's—"

"She's not even that pretty. It's completely the Veela thing, because all the other girls in school thought she was too bony and pointy-looking. Kind of like a bird, if you ask me."

"It's not the looks," Hermione said, remembering what had been in her textbook.

"I know." Ginny's subdued response was almost covered up by the rustling sound she made digging around inside the snack box. "I know. It's the allure. They could be as ugly as a troll, and nobody would care."

"Yeah." Hermione was feeling fairly gloomy herself. If someone like Fleur, who was already thin and elegant and pretty, had on top of that the allure of a Veela, what chance did bookish, frizzy-haired Hermione have? None. Added to it all was her age. She was fifteen. The distance, in mere numbers, meant nothing to her, but in practical terms, Bill could have physically been on the moon itself.

"Let's hope she latches onto someone better." Ginny pitched the empty cauldron cake box across the room towards the rubbish bin.

Hermione turned to watch the box spin a little before going in the bin. She turned and smiled at Ginny before shaking her head. "Will she though? I mean, Bill's—" She caught herself before she spilled out all her feelings towards him. She bit her tongue before continuing. "He's a really good catch."

"I know. He's tall, he's good-looking, he's extremely charming. He even makes a lot of money at Gringotts, much more than she does, since she's just starting out. I just don't see how she could find someone better, considering that she's part-Veela, and—" Ginny's voice dropped to a stage whisper "—not exactly acceptable to a lot of Purebloods."

Then what chance do I have? Hermione thought mournfully to herself. Aloud, she could only repeat her words again, "Yeah. I know."

* * *

They got married.

Before the bridal party came down, Hermione bumped into Bill outside near the marquee.

"Beg pardon," came Bill's startled voice. Hands came up to steady Hermione around her upper arms. He glanced down and smiled, as though only then realising it was her. "Oh, Hermione, how are you?"

"Good. Good." Hermione felt and sounded, to her own ears, a little breathless.

"You look lovely in that dress." Bill was smiling in his usual open, charming way. Hermione thought miserably that any children Bill and Fleur were bound to have would have an unnaturally unfair advantage over the rest of the population.

"Thank you," she said, keeping her eyes down so that her love for him wouldn't shine through so obviously. Her fingers twisted at a fold in her skirt.

"I've heard from Ron that—well, you're probably the only reason those two are still alive and kicking, aren't you?" His voice lowered, as though imparting a joke, and a sliver of awareness crawled up Hermione's spine.

"Oh, I'm sure that's vastly overstating my—contributions." She was floundering for small talk. This was misery, and yet she did not want it to end.

"Anyway, thank you for helping out. This can't be that much fun for you."

"It's—nothing," she said, her voice trailing off as his attention was called away. Hermione was left to star e after his disappearing figure. The pangs she put into her own appearance seemed silly now. Had she truly wanted him to see what he was missing? She felt like an idiot now.

She felt even worse when the ceremony started, and Fleur came through the archway looking like a fairy princess. She glowed so brightly that she might have been an actual celestial star passing through the darkness of their presence. While everyone watched and gasped over Fleur's appearance, all Hermione's attention was fastened on Bill's profile. Her heart twisted inside her chest.

She wished with all her might that he was looking at her in that way.


	6. The Unknowable Beast

Title: The Unknowable Beast

Part II of the Charlie x Luna series.

Pairing: Luna/Charlie

Word Count: 1594

Rating: T

Summary: Something about Luna Lovegood just throws Charlie Weasley off balance. He might just have to get to know her better.

Notes: For Lunamionny for the Fairest of the Rare Love Fest 2020. unbeta'd

* * *

Dragons had a tendency to bring out the dormant aspects of your personality to the surface.

Charlie Weasley was never more aware of this than when he watched Luna Lovegood on his reserve.

For example, if someone were slightly fainthearted to begin with, he ran away at the first sight of a dragon, and if that person were a thrillseeker, he would wave his hands and whoop like a maniac.

Luna Lovegood did neither of those things.

She stood there in the middle of the ravine, with dragons swooping overhead around her, like something— otherworldly , as though she were a faerie and not a human, unafraid and uncowering at the show of beastly might and flight over them.

She stood quiet and unwavering, and not a one of the dragons even spat next to her.

He couldn't help but contrast her with all the girls he had known. He had known a fair number of fearless women. Tonks, rest her soul, was at the top of that list. She would dangle off her broom over the Astronomy Tower to play tricks on someone inside. Absolutely fearless she was, and a whole barrel of laughs, and yet Tonks couldn't help ducking and cursing when a grown dragon flew overhead.

"Merlin's balls, Charlie, they're even more terrifying than Dementors!" she had shouted up at him the first time he let her into the pen. "Don't you dare leave me in here by myself!"

"Of course I wouldn't," Charlie said, flashing her a cheeky grin. That exact thought had occurred to him, but only for a few seconds—just long enough to scare Tonks, who was so good at playing pranks on others.

The thought struck him just now that he had never before met someone so utterly unafraid of the unexpected as Luna Lovegood. She kept absolutely still, standing where dozens of flying dragons could engulf her in a —killing— flame at any moment. A few paces behind her, he could see the happiness and awe on her face—the exact same expression that he had the first time he was brought here.

Dragonology was a predominantly male career choice, mainly because it catered to the danger-seeking young boys had after leaving school and dreaming of exciting, risky exploits. In actuality, it was unglamorous work, with frequent scrapes and bruises and, Charlie had heard on more than one occasion, marked with the incredibly acrid and incomparably disgusting smell of dragon feces.

Watching the peaceful expression on Luna's face, Charlie was struck by the fact that she truly wasn't afraid . She couldn't be… simple , could she? That was the only other explanation he could come up with.

When she turned to him, the only thing she said was, "We're never happier than when we've experienced the limits of our mortality. I understand why you love it so much here."

He never thought that someone could summarise all that he felt about his line of work so succinctly, and that realisation stopped him in his tracks completely.

That was probably the reason Charlie wasn't prepared when a spiked dragon tail whipped through the air and smashed into the ground not five metres from where Luna stood. Charlie woke from his stupor and dove to shove her behind him, immediately casting a shield over the two of them.

Instead of screeching with fright—and he had known one or two girls who'd use the opportunity to sidle into his arms—Luna stood on tip-toes and peered up over his arm at the Horntail. Her silver eyes were crinkled up at the ends. "Oh, that's alright; I'm not hurt. I think he's just a little clumsy. It must be from the excess wrackspurts all over his head."

Charlie wasn't listening at the moment, but later he reflected on her words. The "clumsy" dragon was Mogfish, and he was extraordinarily clumsy. He often flew directly into trees and singed buildings instead of his food. He couldn't help but feel a surge of admiration for that mere girl who was able keep calm after almost being smashed into pieces.

But what on earth were wrackspurts?

* * *

Was it silly of him to be so aware of someone so young? Charlie was starting to mildly feel like a perv. She was his baby sister's age, but her height and build made her look even younger. He could probably fit her inside one of his duffel bags and carry her around.

She stayed for one more day after Ginny left, and Charlie, sick of wondering about his own intentions, took her to a nearby village for dinner and a show.

Before Ginny had left, she had pointed a finger at him and warned him. "Don't make fun of her, Charlie."

He spread his hands and gave her his most innocent look. "Would I?"

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him and pursed her lips. "I've lived with the lot of you my whole life. I know how mean you all can be about women. I mean it. I will bat-bogey hex you for the rest of your single life if you hurt her. The rest of your life. "

"I won't hurt her, Gin," Charlie said, relenting in his mockery. "I can be charming."

Ginny didn't look any happier with that. "Not too charming either, mind. She needs someone else in her life that's not—jaded like you. Someone who's—I don't know, someone who's less brawny, maybe."

Charlie had scoffed then. "So now I can't talk to your friend because I'm too muscular? That's a first."

"You know what I mean!"

The thing was, Charlie did know what she meant. Luna was someone made of dreams and clouds, someone who was somehow shielded from the ugliness of life even as she swam in it. Like the dragonfire blossom that sprung up after a spate of sulfuric ash buried the ground and everything living on it.

He didn't think he wanted to see the day someone wrecked that strange mixture of wisdom and innocence. He was sure that it'd be the augur of worse things to come.

* * *

Something about Luna Lovegood made Charlie Weasley feel at times inadequate and off-balance.

She was mostly a restful sort of girl; the kind that belonged more in a woodland setting filled with water sprites than in a gregarious pub filled with loud witches and wizards. There was always something so dreamy about her, as though she was lost in a world of her own; somewhere beautiful and happy and forbidden to most people. She was, he was coming to realise in the short time she had been in Romania, someone out of the ordinary.

On the other hand, Charlie was confronted with the irritating fact that pure innocence was a little endearing and a lot maddening. He was never more aware of this than after spending the entire evening with Luna Lovegood.

It wasn't a date, he had told himself. He'd had his share of women who chased dragon tamers; the excitable ones who followed the dragon tournaments around the world. Like Ginny had said, he was much too old and jaded for someone like Luna. He wouldn't want her to get the wrong idea about his intentions because, most likely, he had none. He had been doing his own thing for a good portion of his life now, and he preferred it like that. As one and then the next of his brothers got married, all Charlie did was to show up at the wedding and then smirk in delight as, six months down the line, the complaints started to trickle through the lovesickness.

The perpetual bachelor, Ginny had called him. The only one of his siblings who would broach the subject, she had asked, "Don't you ever get lonely, Charlie?"

He had gestured at the majesty of the mountains behind them, mountains that could look purple and wet with fog, or green and verdant with vegetation, and scoffed. "Are you kidding, Gin? Look at this place. Why would I get lonely when I get to tame the most unknowable beast in the world?"

After the dinner and the show, which consisted of watching the Blajini reenact a famous battle, they returned to the reserve. Charlie thought it had gone fairly well. In the past, he had been shocked by how forward women were nowadays. He wondered where Luna Lovegood would fall on this scale, considering her predilection for wild animals and those who tamed them. Not that this was that kind of a date. Not at all.

She turned to him with a smile that he couldn't help but return. Her voice was soft and songlike as she said, "I'm really glad I got to know you better, Charlie. It's really nice to have a big brother. Ginny's so lucky to have so many who care for her."

It threw him off-kilter.

The unspoken meaning in her words indicated that she now considered him in a brotherly light. It flummoxed him. Had he, like some of his friends thought, been spending too much time on the reserve? Had he somehow lost his touch?

Like a brother. Like a brother. The words seemed to echo in his mind even as he watched her Portkey away the next day. She waved at him cheerily, with no sign that she had spent a restless night wondering if she had just been neutered in some way.

He smiled back with only half her enthusiasm.

One thought reverberated through his brain: Here was one more unknowable beast he just had to know better.


	7. A Galleon Per Second

Title: A Galleon Per Second

Part II of the Depravity of Purebloods Series.

Word Count: 2390

Pairing: Lavender/Doorknob, Blaise Zabini

Rating: M (for discussion of mature subjects)

Summary: In the aftermath of the war, Lavender Brown is desperate for money. She's willing to do just about anything, even if it's licking a few door knobs for depraved Purebloods.

Notes: Here's to disenchantedglow and her plunnies. This one is all your fault. It's also gifted to my sweet, dear kuri, who's a wonderful friend. unbeta'd.

* * *

As was usual every Wednesday night at midnight, Lavender Brown Apparated from the town square to a little side street deep within Knockturn Alley and knocked on a door.

Even though they both knew who the other person was, it was normal for them to keep up this hidden routine. Blaise Zabini—a very sketchy individual if there was one—opened a knothole in the door at eye level and peered out at Lavender. She shifted from foot to foot in impatience.

After a nod, Zabini slid a pouch through the knothole and waited silently while Lavender counted the money inside.

To keep their activities untrackable, Zabini always paid her in random knuts, sickles, and Galleons. Today, there were more Galleons than normal, and Lavender bounced the pouch experimentally against one palm. Then she poked the tip of her wand through the opening of the pouch and rattled off the incantation she now knew by heart. "Computus nummus."

All the coins inside the pouch rattled and lined up within the confines, and Lavender was able to shine a light in and rapidly recount the number of coins within.

After this ritual was finished, Lavender looked up and gave the briefest nod to Zabini. He nodded curly, his handsome mouth twisted into a sour line.

The knothole closed with a slam, but Lavender didn't notice. She had already Apparated away.

* * *

Pureblood wizards were the biggest, most disgusting gits on the surface of the planet, and Lavender knew this fact more intimately than most.

It had all started back when the war first ended, leaving Lavender with the most horrific scars to be experienced by a woman.

It was even more horrifying, because Fleur Delacour had been the Healer in charge of her at the time. Just staring at the other woman's dainty features and pristine skin made Lavender wanted to lash out and destroy the entire room.

"I don't need you here, you stupid French bint," Lavender had shouted one day, throwing a bedpan across the room. It was empty; she wasn't a complete animal, even though her leg was bound up in three different places due to a werewolf attack.

The worst attack ever, they had whispered outside of her hospital curtains, thinking she couldn't hear. There's never been someone who's been so afflicted and survived.

Lavender's new improved hearing had served her too well in those days. She had wanted to hex out her ear drums but had to make do by covering her head with her pillow and growling to herself.

She's so lucky, a few had said. Just think; she could have been dead.

Lavender wished she had been outright killed. There were two gashes right across her face. There was one right over her sternum, with the other two over her abdomen. One side of her neck was badly marred. Her left leg had been broken when she had fought against the attack.

Somehow she had survived it all.

Why?

She didn't know why. She only knew that when she looked in the mirror, she hated the person who stared back at her.

Lavender had never been the beautiful, glamorous type. Her neck wasn't long enough, her bosom was too full, her mouth was too wide, and she had a retrousse nose. None of this mattered, when she had rosy, peachy skin only somewhat dappled by light freckles. With judicious application of makeup and the right clothes, she could look very appealing indeed, appealing enough that she frequently got wolf-whistles walking down Muggle streets.

In short, she never had much to complain about, not when it came to men.

That changed after the attack.

All of a sudden, she got averted glances, sidelong glances, discreet glances downward, as though speculating what other injuries she had and where. There were always eyes on her, flickering here and there and everywhere—it drove her barmy.

She hated it all. She hated them. She hated herself.

Fleur brought her husband to the hospital ward. Perhaps she thought that seeing his injuries would make Lavender feel better about herself.

"Hello there, Lavender, is it?" Bill Weasley said with a charming smile.

And it was charming. It didn't matter that he had a scar diagonally across the front of his face. It looked good on him. It just wasn't the same, not at all. People didn't have the same expectations from men as they did from women. On men, they gasped in awe at the scar that was the emblem of his bravery. "Wow, Bill," they said. "How'd you survive that?"

Bill was a warrior who had beaten his opponent.

To Lavender, they cleared their throats and said, "Well, it's not your fault, Lav," even though saying that implied that it was. "He was looking for a pretty girl, and you got in the way."

Lavender was a victim.

The distinction made Lavender so angry she wanted to overturn tables. She wasn't hailed as a hero. All she was was a broken shell of a formerly beautiful woman. They called her former self beautiful now, because that's what she was compared to how she looked now.

It was just the same as when a boy got spots versus when a girl did. Inevitably it always looked worse on a girl.

Lavender never understood why people like Hermione Granger could forego her experience and lobby for ridiculous causes like elf rights and gender equality, but now she understood.

It was different when you were on the other side.

* * *

Lavender had been standing in the chemist's, looking longingly at the expensive array of potions and creams that decorated the back wall when the store owner, a Halfblood named Mr. Jefferty, walked up to the counter.

"Oh, my dear girl," he said, making a tsking sound when he saw her. "That would never do. The skin is a girl's lifeblood. You must try our line of Fadeaway potions. It's the most effective scar removal out there. It has demiguise extract, you understand. It'll have your scar invisible in no time at all."

"No time?" Lavender repeated, her eyes narrowed and suspicious. Her fingers couldn't help but hover over the edges of her bandage nervously.

"Hmm, yes," Mr. Jefferty said. He took out his large keychain and unlocked the glass cabinet behind him. The potion was carefully taken down with both hands, reverently, as though he were handling the world's largest and most fragile diamond. He set it on the counter between them. "Look at it," he whispered. "Only three drops of it can make all the difference."

Lavender didn't believe him, especially when he recited the price. She had scoffed and turned away.

He caught her wrist. "I'll let you have a sample of it, m'dear. Only a very little, mind, since it's so dear."

And he had, in a small clear tube with a rubber squeeze top. The entire thing was put under stasis and wrapped up before it was passed into Lavender's hands.

Once home, Lavender took out the dropper with shaking hands and laid it out on her bathroom counter. She stared at it for a moment, breathing heavily. Then she removed the stasis in the same way that Mr. Jefferty had directed her, and squeezed one—just one—precious drop over the most hated of her scars, a red mark right under her eye. It was so glaring a mark that even with a hat and sunglasses, it was visible from half a street away.

The potion was thick and viscous. It did not spread well. She was able to work it barely over one centimetre before it refused to move any farther.

Lavender replaced the stasis charm and stared at herself in the mirror for a full five minutes. Nothing happened.

Disappointed but not surprised, she sighed and left the bathroom.

That night, she found that the section of the scar covered by the potion was lighter than the surrounding area by two to three shades.

* * *

Lavender was under time constraints in removing her scars. They could only be removed while they were still red and pink. She had never prayed so hard that they wouldn't fade away.

During the day, she worked as one of the staff at the Leaky Cauldron, which had been placed under the management of one Hannah Abbott. After being stared at for the first day, Lavender had requested to be put in the back. She did dishwashing and laundry and the odd chores that meant she was never in the public view.

One day, Hannah called her to the front and said, "I'm so sorry, Lavender, but we're short-staffed today. It's so busy. Could you handle the tables for just the lunch hour?"

Lavender wanted to say no, but Hannah was wonderful to work for. She was understanding and sweet. Lavender didn't want to disappoint her, so she grabbed a hat and pulled it down over her head before marching out into the main room.

It was so busy that day that most of the customers didn't even look at her. She got a few commiserating comments, which were the worst. She'd rather no one even alluded to her physical condition.

Then she spotted a group of people she recognised, with Blaise Zabini at the head and Gregory Goyle, that minion of Draco Malfoy's, among them. Lavender dreaded going over there, but she pulled her most menacing expression and stomped over.

She flashed her most intimidating smile, showing razor-sharp canines that were a gift from her werewolf attack, at the small group. Zabini raised his eyebrows at her, and Goyle stared openly with his mouth open.

Lunch passed without incident, and the small group in her section got up to leave. It hadn't been the most terrible hour, despite Gregory Goyle's fixed stares at her. They were at least good tippers.

She let out a breath of relief when the door closed behind them, their coins feeling gratifyingly heavy in her apron pocket.

During her afternoon break, she went out the back to sit on the stoop and count her tips. That was when she was interrupted by Zabini, who suddenly appeared like a ghost in the mist.

"Need money, do you?" he asked, his eyes lingering on the possessive way she held into the money in her lap.

Lavender eyed his expensive outer robes and his shiny dragonhide boots. He was even sporting a sapphire earring. She growled at him in response.

"Goyle likes your smile," Zabini said casually. "Ever thought of posing for photos?"

Lavender avoided getting photographed as stringently as someone avoided life-threatening allergens. She decided to ignore him and returned her tips back inside her pocket.

"I'll give you a Galleon per photograph," he said finally. "Actually, a Galleon per second of frame."

Her hands stopped moving in her lap. A standard wizarding photograph contained a full ten seconds on loop. She could make ten Galleons just like that? It was... tempting.

She looked up and eyed him suspiciously. "How would I know you wouldn't make copies?"

"You could spell them from copying," he said with a shrug. "Listen, it's just something I do for friends. You in or not?"

Then he pulled a hand out of his pocket and she saw the camera in his grasp. He could very well have just snapped a photograph of her then and there, but he stopped, raising his eyebrows at her.

"Money up front," she said. "And I want a wand-oath that there wouldn't be additional copies of that." She didn't know any useful hexes like Hermione Granger did, but she could find out. Later.

The Galleons he passed to her felt warm and heavy in her hand, and she counted it in her head like the drops of the potion. One drop, two drops. The potion was very expensive; a full five Galleons per droplet.

Afterwards, she went to the chemist and bought two drops of the potion.

The next time Zabini came into the Leaky, she was the one to voluntarily motion him out the back.

* * *

It was a different set of photographs this time. These twisted Pureblood fuckers.

First, it had been a smile to show off her pointy canines from all angles. Then, it had been a photograph of her ankles. A photograph of an upskirt showing—by request, mind—large white bloomers. Not sexy brief knickers that showed off a bit of skin, but actual bloomers. That was how Lavender knew that these Purebloods were repressed, disgusting perverts. Imagine getting off on something your grandmother's grandmother would wear!

Lavender had acquiesced to Zabini's requests every time. After all, aside from the first time, her face wasn't even shown in the photographs. She wondered how much of a cut Zabini was making on these. Luckily, a chat with Hermione Granger had taught her some basic contractual hexes, so at the very least Lavender wouldn't be out her fair share.

Sometimes she wondered at the depravity of these Purebloods. They were so conservative that they wore sleeves that covered their arms down to the knuckles and shirt collars that rose up to the jawline. She wondered if they even had sex with the light on. Probably not, if Goyle apparently got off to the sight of an open mouth with pointy canines. Perhaps they even did it with a sheet in between, for modesty's sake.

Today, it was posing with doorknobs. Zabini had demonstrated for her, and Lavender had sighed and rolled her eyes in disbelief. She was charging double her rates to show her face. This time, she was making five photographs, because apparently licking doorknobs was a big deal for Purebloods. It was very risque behaviour in their circles.

Lavender put on chapstick and then pink lipstick before casting a soft filtering glamour over her features; just enough to soften any defining edges. Then she got down on her bathroom floor and stuck out her tongue, touching the cool knob of the door handle. She pouted and placed her mouth right next to the door knob before opening her mouth to its widest and attempting to place the entire thing in her mouth. Who ever said large mouths were good for nothing?

It was the strangest thing she had ever done for money, but at least it was very good money.

Those Purebloods were such suckers.


	8. Exception to the Rules

Title: Exception to the Rules

Word Count: 2506

Pairing: Hermione/Theo

Rating: M

Summary: Theo understands Hermione Granger's need for rules. His own adherence to rules makes him exceedingly effective as legal counsellor. So why does he want to break her rules so badly?

Notes: Written for Jess6800, noxsoulmate in the Fairest of the Rare Love Fest 2020 #TeamAphrodite. Beta thanks to disenchantedglow for helping me with this!

Prompt: Theo/Hermione, secret dating

* * *

The first time it happened, they didn't talk until the very end.

Then, "This can't happen again," Hermione said.

"There are no regulations against it." Theo was unperturbed. He'd checked.

"No, but I've got rules against it."

He'd bet she did. She was a stickler for rules. She had all but memorised the entire Annotated Civil Wizarding Law: Procedures and Forms, and could list out the rules by their section numbers. He was simultaneously impressed and a bit disturbed by her thoroughness.

He shrugged. "That's fine."

He didn't move from his position on the bed, sitting slouched against the head frame. An arm was folded behind his head, and he had lit a cheroot with his wand. He watched her dress with narrowed eyes. She moved like a woman with a purpose. There was no coy shake to her hips as she pulled on her skirt and twisted it so that the right side faced front.

She paused just before letting herself out the door. With one hand on the doorknob, she turned to look at him. "Smoking's bad for you, did you know that?"

"I've heard."

She locked eyes with him for a moment longer, probably regretting the night's work—or lack thereof, but she was as cool as a cucumber, even checking her watch briefly as she spoke to him. "Deposition's at nine. Don't be late."

There was only the soft click of the door as she let herself out.

Theo continued smoking after she left.

* * *

The second time it happened, she had sent in a request for a few documents by owl. He responded, in a timely fashion, that they were not in his nor his client's possession.

Back and forth, they debated this until her head poked through the fireplace of his office. Green flames erupted from her mouth as she yelled from the low fire, "Rubbish! I know your client has it, Theo. I saw him take it out of his folio two months ago."

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles on top of his desk, surveying her head. She looked like an angry, animated green mask. "Then he doesn't have it anymore."

"It's illegal to destroy evidence—"

"After trial has started, I know. Except he wasn't added to the list of defendants until a month ago." Theo twirled his wand so that it spun on the top of his hand before he caught it again. "Anything else?"

She was silent for a moment, her face swimming in the flicker of the flames. Then she stepped through the fireplace into his office. Green gradually poured off her, like liquid silk, until she was in full colour again, this time in person next to his desk. "If he knows he'll be involved in a lawsuit, he's under an obligation to retain any documents—"

"He didn't know, and you can't prove he did," Theo said, without moving an inch. His eyes surveyed her from top to bottom. Her hair had seen better days, and she was wearing slacks. He didn't like slacks on women. Too difficult to get off. She wasn't wearing a pullover shirt, however, and that was something he did like. One shirttail was hanging out and there were more buttons undone on the top than she usually had in public. She had clearly come from home, because her feet were bare. He cocked his head and noted that her toenails were bright purple—a very surprising bit of vanity on a woman who usually eschewed all aspects of femininity in public.

Her eyes blazed and he reluctantly lifted his eyes from her intriguing toes back to her face. "Don't pull that on me. We told him he could be liable."

"He doesn't take threats seriously."

"Control your fucking client!" she howled finally, slapping down a hand on his desk, making a stoppered bottle of ink jump.

And there it was—his opening.

He surged out of his chair and in the next second he was standing in front of her, so close their faces were only an inch apart. "Ask me nicely."

She poked him in the chest with her finger, but she didn't retreat. Of course not; she was Hermione fucking Granger. "Control your client, or else."

He considered it for a brief moment. "Good enough," he said and he curled one hand around the back of her head, through that grizzly terror of a hairdo and pulled her up into him. He was faintly aware of her hands pushing at his shoulders, not strong enough to be taken as any sort of a rejection. More like a token objection. He didn't take heed of objections, in the courtroom or not.

Their mouths slammed into one another before gentling, softening; secrets sealed between their dancing tongues. Hot breath intermingled and images danced on the insides of his eyelids. He saw bare skin, a sprinkle of freckles that looked like hundreds and thousands on top of a cupcake, and endless hair like something out of a Renaissance painting. He heard groans and moans and breathy exhortations; a slew of husky sounds that replayed in his head when she wasn't there.

There. Don't stop. More. Harder.

His hands lowered to her nape, his thumbs circling the hollows under her jaw.

Then she pushed him away. "Have you been smoking?" Her nose was scrunched up.

It was a rhetorical question. He didn't answer tensorial questions. The lit cheroot was still glowing faintly on top of his desk, clear indication of his activities prior to her arrival.

She pushed back at her hair and sighed. "I can't be involved with someone who has questionable morals," she muttered, in a way that was more to herself than to him.

"Because of the smoking? I think that's more indicative of a health hazard." He laughed softly to himself.

"You know it's not just the smoking."

He didn't respond. His morals weren't questionable; he knew exactly what he believed in—himself. There hadn't been anyone else to believe in, after all.

She sighed and moved away from him, one hand on her hip. "Look. Can we just try to conduct this trial with some semblance of honour?"

"There's no honour among opponents," he said.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure that's the tactic you want to take? Do you really want to play hardball with me?"

"I don't know what that means," Theo said. "But there are other games I would be interested in playing…"

She sighed, and again there was that brief moment where she looked at her watch; that turn of her wrist so she could check the time. "I've got half an hour before I have to go back."

Theo was already before her, unbuttoning her blouse and slipping a hand inside to cup her warm breast. He pinched lightly at her nipple and heard her sharp intake of breath as she closed her eyes and angled back her head. "This isn't being billed to your client, right?" he said, nipping at her neck.

"Of course I wouldn't—" Her head came up and her eyes snapped open. "Have you…?"

She was so easy to rile up. He sucked tenderly at her earlobe and sank his other hand inside the back of her trousers, feeling the warm, round curves of her buttocks. "Mmmm," he said, just so that he could feel her struggle against him. He let her, just for a moment, before he danced her around and towards the wall. Then he pushed her slightly so that she tumbled backwards.

"Tell me you haven't been billing this," she said, frowning a little. Her eyes were concerned, rather than completely clouded over with desire.

He rolled his eyes even as he jerked down the collar of her shirt, sending the rest of the buttons flying off. He wormed his fingers under her brassiere and palmed her breast, hoisting her higher up on the wall. "If we're going to be arguing ethics while we fuck, then I definitely will bill this."

She shut up immediately, but he could tell it was still on her mind. There was that little crease between her brows, which was the last thing he saw before he lowered his open mouth over one rosy nipple.

* * *

There were so many things that had been beaten out of Theo from a young age that he simply didn't understand Hermione Granger's idealism. She was always on the crusade for another cause. If it wasn't one thing, it was another.

She was always frowning. If it made her that unhappy, why did she keep at it?

Take him, for example. He was damned good at lawyering. First of all, he never got emotionally involved. He was invested only as long as the client could pay. Any amount above that, and he smiled politely to them and began drafting his Cessation of Services owl in his head. It was a good system.

He was still pondering this when Hermione's face appeared in the fireplace and in tones unlike her usual urgent manner asked if his client planned to mediate.

She was so hushed and quiet that he considered her for a solid minute before she prompted him again.

"What's the matter?" he asked, cocking his head to one side. "Doesn't your client have sufficient funds to pay your overhead?"

She shook her head, but he didn't believe her. Theo counted every single minute when it came to billing. He had several very handy spells to keep everything accountable to the second. That was also how he knew that Hermione Granger could come in under seven minutes.

"Well, I am urging my client to settle. As quickly as possible."

"Right," she said, still unnaturally subdued.

"Hermione," he said.

Her face had been turned away, possibly in preparation for leaving the firecall, but at his exhortation, she turned back. Even with the green flames all around her, he could tell that she was upset, and it made him strangely irritated. Curiosity, that was what it was. He always did like to know what was happening.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she said, but this time he heard it. A little chokey, a little stuffy; she was speaking with a runny nose, and somehow he had the feeling she had been crying. "I'll—I'll speak to you later."

It had been weeks since the last time they fucked. He had been considering, while going down on her, that he did find himself unexpectedly entertained by her. She was so—animated. In everything. He didn't think he had ever had a more excitable lover, and he had paid for some very good actresses. That day, after they were dressed, he asked her if she wanted to grab a bite to eat.

"Together?" Her eyebrows had been high on her brow.

"Well, we could sit with our backs to each other, or consider some other existential methods of eating, but yes, that's the gist of what I was proposing."

She had that frown between her brows again, the one that indicated she was thinking hard about it. He suddenly wanted to know what went on in her thought process when it came to him—did he rate as highly as an owl about courtroom scheduling, for example? Or perhaps even higher, like a client whose property had been wrongfully trespassed, resulting in a magical accident with lasting effects?

"I—that's not exactly a good idea," she had said, and for some reason, the frown on her forehead seemed to be catching. He never had anything to frown about, but he found himself frowning all the same.

"Alright," he said slowly, as though to himself. He never ate with women, not in a date sense. What was he thinking? "Until next time then."

He never became emotionally invested.

Yet he kept thinking about it even after they disconnected the firecall.

Now he rose from his desk and walked over to the fireplace, crouching down and poking at the ashes at the corners. All to get a better look at Hermione's face. "Have you been fired by your client?" he asked, deliberately light. It had been known to happen in the years he had gone up against her.

"No!" she said, roughly wiping at her nose with a tissue. "I'm not charging him for this case, I'll have you know! He's very happy with me as his legal counsel."

Of bloody course. Why had he bothered asking? Of course she wasn't charging for something that she worked on night and day until she had shadows under her eyes and that perpetual frown between her brows.

"Anyway, I'll see you—"

This time, when she turned her face away, he reached in after her and grabbed hold of a tendril of her hair. He felt a cool, tickling sensation as he shifted through the green fire, and then he was through and inside her flat.

Hermione gaped at him. He surveyed her features silently. He was right; she had been crying. More to the point, why should he care? If he were smart, and countless people had told him that he was, he would get out now. Now, before her little frowns and breathy excited laughs tied him up in knots so tight he could never break free.

"Why have you been crying?" he found himself asking instead.

She dropped her eyes. "I...Crookshanks died."

"Who?"

"My—my kneazle." She sent him a gaze that had a bit of her old spirit back, as though daring him to say anything about her state of mind. "And before you say anything, I know he was just a pet and they have shorter life spans and they die, but I'm sad about it, okay? And I don't care what you think!"

That was when he realised everything she just said about her pet—with the worst name in the world—could apply to how he felt about her. She was just a girl. She wasn't anything special. People died, as he knew from personal experience, and even before they died, they disappointed you. Sometimes they were idiotic, sometimes they were boring, and sometimes they were just plain maddening.

Hermione Granger had gone from the third category to being in a list all by herself; someone that he couldn't quantify, someone who had gotten his skin and made him feel... things.

He stared down at the top of her head, wondering if maybe her emotions were catching, and if so, whether he'd recover.

Then he gathered her in his arms and rested his chin on top of her frizzy head and petted her, until she began to sniffle and cry. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry."

Maybe it was catching, but for once, he wasn't shielding himself or trying to extricate himself from the situation.

After awhile, she stopped crying and gazed up at him with red, watery eyes, and he still didn't mind holding her.

Maybe, just maybe, just this once, he could make an exception to his own rules.


	9. Just Go With It

Title: Just Go With It

Pairing: Charlie/Hermione, Neville/Hermione

Word Count: 1999

Summary: Charlie and Hermione have a deal, but Neville also wants in. (Not as dirty as this sounds. Sorry.)

Notes: Written for dreamsofdramione (Bugggghead), noxsoulmate in the Fairest of the Fair Love Fest, #TeamAphrodite! Unbeta'd.

Prompt: fake-dating

* * *

It was something that started out in a fit of desperation.

Hermione saw a glimpse of the handsy wizard from work and hastily looked around for the nearest exit point to the pub. In her panic, she dropped her wand on the floor, and she ducked down for a microsecond to retrieve it. When she straightened, she almost shrieked in surprise to find Rufus Lestrange standing in front of her, less than twenty centimetres away, like a pop-up jack-in-the-box.

The fact that this Pureblood should always seek her out wasn't the strangest thing about this situation. It was the fact that he always looked like he was enjoying some twisted private joke. Maybe Hermione was being superficial, but his wide, toothy mouth combined with extremely arched eyebrows gave him the look of a cartoon Joker, and not in a good way.

"Hello there, Hermione," Rufus said, putting undue emphasis on her name as though there was a joke there she didn't get.

Hermione smiled back uneasily. "I'm actually on my way—"

"Actually, I'd like to speak to you about something of monumental importance," he said. His eyes didn't blink, and he fingered his wand in a suggestive way that made Hermione want to gag. His long, knobbly fingers stroked his wand in a manner that was surely against wand protocol. "Your interview with the mass murderer, Cyril Connaught, how was that? Was he—disturbing?" He looked absolutely delighted at the idea.

Not as disturbing as you, was what Hermione wanted to say, if not for the fact that Rufus Lestrange was their French liaison for the policy briefing.

Hermione tried to skirt around the bar stool but realised, as she had before, that Rufus had no notion of personal space. He actually moved closer, as though he had to maintain the same distance of a handbreadth from her nose.

There wasn't even anyone she knew in here to save her from this horrifyingly close encounter.

Right at that moment, Hermione saw glimpse of red and shouted, "Charlie!" at the top of her lungs. She was so loud that Rufus flinched for a second (but then he was right back in her face again). Hermione waved her hand frantically, hoping that Charlie wouldn't just smile and walk away. To make certain of it, she began to wave her entire arm exaggeratedly. "Over here!"

Luckily, she was standing near the bar. Charlie looked up and ambled over. "Hey, Herm—"

Hermione launched herself into his arms, hearing faintly his muffled "oomph" as his arms closed around her in an effort to stay upright. His hand patted her back, once, twice, and then lifted away. Over his shoulder, Hermione saw Rufus's assessing eyes following Charlie's every movement.

"Am I glad to see you!" Hermione said loudly, placing one hand high up on Charlie's chest, holding her palm flush against his pectoral. She saw his eyebrows lift, but before he could disengage himself, she rushed into speech. "When did you get back? Just now?"

"Actually, I've been—"

Hermione burst into loud, hysterical laughter, slapping him on the arm as though Charlie said something funny. He broke off with a quizzical frown. "I've missed you so, so much," she said. Rufus's Joker stare emboldened her enough to do what she would never do under other circumstances—she stood on tiptoes with puckered lips, her insistent hands pulling Charlie's shoulder down as he resisted. This wasn't cutting it, not at all.

"Have you had too much—"

Hermione finally had to jump to kiss Charlie's cheek. "Charlie's my boyfriend," she said to Rufus. "Fiancé. Almost." At the frozen look on Charlie's face, she tittered like the most dimwitted person to have ever existed. "Lover, definitely."

Charlie blinked, but she saw the moment he understood. His mouth was open in an unspoken "ah," and then he curved an arm around Hermione's shoulders. The arm was heavy and warm against her neck, but he was still holding himself gingerly; trying to respect their boundaries, probably.

Rufus's eyes lingered on Charlie's hair for a moment. Then, "Charlie Weasley, I presume?"

"Yes—"

"The dragonologist, yes," Hermione interrupted. "Look at the muscles on him. And this mark here—that's from fighting a dragon." Hermione boldly unrolled part of Charlie's sleeve to show a ten-centimetre long scar.

"Right," Charlie said after a pause. "That's what it was."

"Weren't you dating a Ronald Weasley only recently?" was Rufus's surprising follow-up question.

Hermione gulped. She hadn't counted on Rufus being so on top of gossip. What was he, a stalker? "That was some time ago," she said, her breath coming in shallow and fast. Dear Lord, this man was so creepy.

"That must be so weird for you," Rufus continued, swinging his unblinking eyes from Hermione to Charlie. One thumb was hooked around a belt loop, and the other hand was now stroking his chin in the same lewd, repetitive manner as he hummed to himself.

Hermione repressed a shudder.

"Not at all," Charlie said, the first time he had been able to complete a sentence so far. He smiled at Rufus and gave the smaller man a mock punch to the shoulder. "When you see a good thing, you have to make your move, isn't that right?"

Rufus's shoulder swung back when Charlie's fist bumped him, and then he took another step backwards. He wasn't humming anymore. "I suppose."

"I've been told I'm like a dragon in that regard. I like to keep all the things I hold dear and singe everything else that gets in my way," Charlie said without inflexion but sounding deadly serious at the same time. Hermione blinked up at him, marveling at how quickly he stepped up to bat. He wasn't even looking at her when he flashed a smile at Rufus that showed off his canines. "That's love, innit?"

"Uh, right, right," Rufus said, frowning now. He took another step back and then he made the classic move of flipping over his wrist to look at his watch before realising he wasn't wearing a watchpiece. "I actually have somewhere I need to be…"

Hermione watched Rufus stumble away from them and push open the door to leave. She turned to Charlie with a drop-jawed expression of awe. "Charlie. You were amazing."

"I know," he said. "Who's that creep?"

"Someone I have to endure for a month," Hermione said gloomily. "Thanks to you, he won't be trying to breathe my carbon dioxide anymore, though."

"Your what?"

Hermione waved it away. "Let me buy you a drink. You deserve it after a manly display like that."

"Thanks," he said cheerfully and flexed a bicep in a comically exaggerated fashion. "I was rather into theatre and dramatics as a child. Good to know I've still got it."

* * *

There were two sisters from the Beauxbatons delegation who were the talk of the Triwizard Tournament. One was the very young Charms professor, and the other was her seventh year sister. They were beautiful and blonde, and they floated through the halls as though they were perpetually dancing.

Hermione thought that Ron would rather have liked to see the sight, but unfortunately, he hadn't been called up to the school as she had.

So it was with some amusement that she saw the two women chatting with Neville Longbottom and Charlie Weasley, the Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures professors. Their body language was purposefully sinuous and limber, in that giving way that women had when they were flirting. Hermione smiled at the two men from behind the women's back. She wanted to flash them a thumbs-up but thought that would be going too far. One of the women was still a student, after all, for all that she looked and acted as though she were a performing artist.

After lunch, as all the students were congregating outside on the grounds, Neville came running up to Hermione. His hair was askew across his forehead, and he was slightly out of breath. "Ha," was his first panted word to her. "So, Hermione, am I glad to see you!"

"Oh?" Hermione said, frowning slightly. "Is there an issue with the delegation?" She had been put in charge of the Beauxbatons group, and her coworker was in charge of handling the troop from Durmstrang.

"Er," Neville said and gave a short laugh. His hands were on his thighs, and he looked like he was still trying to catch his breath.

Hermione waited patiently. Then, as the minute stretched out, she started to flip through the folder in her hands. There were still so many last-minute details she needed to sort out. She should be—

That was the exact moment Neville spun her around and hugged her fiercely, crumpling the file in between them.

"What on earth?" Hermione said as soon as she had recovered from her shock. She pushed Neville off and stared down at the wrinkled folder in her hand, looking up to glare at him.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, but somehow she got the feeling he was not at all sorry.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked him, a bit testily, as she flicked at her lapel and tapped on the folder to restore it back to pristine order.

"Nothing," he said, and smiled at her. Then he bent down and gave her a dry peck on her cheek before flicking her chin playfully with a gentle finger.

Hermione frowned at him, watching him warily as he loped off, whistling all the while. She shook her head in bemusement after his disappearing figure.

"There you are, darling," said a loud voice.

Hermione jumped and turned around to find Charlie there, a wide, welcoming grin on his face. He stopped a few metres from her and clapped his hands together as though he had been searching for her for a very long time, instead of just seeing her a few minutes ago. She took an uneasy step backwards.

"My lovely, lovely girlfriend," he said in the same volume. Then, before Hermione could react, he pounced on her.

Alright, so he didn't exactly jump, but it felt like he did, as he crossed the distance in less than a second and had his arms completely wrapped around her shoulders. One hand even reached down to squeeze her arse, making her squeal and try to dart away.

"Charlie!" Hermione shouted. "What is the matter—"

In her ear, he whispered in a rush, "Shh, just go with it."

"What?" Hermione said with another yelp as he squeezed her other buttock. Then she got it. "Oh," she said but pushed him off with a strong shove. "That's very nice, dear, but I'm working. Maybe later?"

"Come up to my private chambers?" Charlie said, still at a low roar audible at fifty paces.

Hermione winced. Exactly who was Charlie hiding fro—

She caught sight of the Beauxbatons sisters right at that moment. They were standing in the shade of a tree, heads uncommonly close in the stance of two women in the middle of whispering to each other from behind cupped hands.

"Wait, why?" she demanded in a whisper. "Just look at them! They're gorgeous. Well, one of them is still a student, so please steer clear, but—"

"No," Charlie growled through unmoving lips. "I don't like being chased by bloody forward hussies. And you owe me, Granger."

Hermione rolled her eyes but acquiesced, holding up her hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. But just so you know, Neville has already done the same thing you just did."

Charlie growled again, this time baring his teeth. "Longbottom? He's a bloody fast runner, isn't he? We were just talking about it at lunch, and he said may the best man succeed—ah, I see what he did. The little fucker."

"So, now what?" Hermione asked, patting him on his shoulder to calm him down. "Am I fake-dating you or Neville?"

There was a rasp of sound as Charlie scratched at his beard. Then he grinned down at her. "How about both of us, then?"


End file.
